


Nothing Left Unsaid

by holyfudgemonkeys (erraticallyinspired)



Series: PSon Fluff Bingo [11]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Age Difference, Birthday Party, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Intimacy, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Older Man/Younger Man, PSon Fluff Bingo, Pining, Pining Gil Arroyo, Pining Malcolm Bright, Touch-Starved, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:48:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29972091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erraticallyinspired/pseuds/holyfudgemonkeys
Summary: When Gil needs a fake date to a party, Malcolm offers himself up.---(For the square "fake/pretend relationship" on my fluff bingo card.)
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Series: PSon Fluff Bingo [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1733158
Comments: 6
Kudos: 31





	Nothing Left Unsaid

Malcolm never thought he’d be in this situation — at least, not with Gil. 

Of course, it wasn’t completely out of the question when he was still an agent. He’d gone undercover a handful of times and had known other agents who’d done the whole fake relationship dynamic for a case. Maybe it was the fact that he tended not to get along too well with others that prevented him from being assigned to one of those, but it never happened. 

Then he was fired.

Then Gil offered him a job. 

Of the team at Major Crimes, only Dani had any significant amount of experience undercover. Gil himself could have done it if not for the press he’d received for arresting The Surgeon, and JT was snatched up by him fairly early on in his own career. There just hadn’t been any opportunities since then. 

Not that that matters, since work doesn’t factor into why Malcolm is pressed against Gil’s side, a cheap wine glass full of a fruity white in hand, a chuckle on his lips as the old police Chief talks. 

Gil’s hand burns through his suit jacket, through his button down and right to his waist. Sometimes he squeezes lightly. Sometimes he moves it, stroking Malcolm’s side with an idle touch. He doesn’t look at Malcolm. His smile doesn’t falter. 

There’s nothing important riding on this night. Realistically, Malcolm could have held the offer back. He could have suggested Gil find a nice date that would actually _be_ a date. He could have even told the other man to tell the truth — that he’s not ready to move on from Jackie yet. All of those things would have been fine. Gil would have managed on his own. 

But the words escaped his mouth before he could consider any of the options, and so Malcolm finds himself at Gil’s side lying through his teeth about the ‘quiet relationship’ they’ve been maintaining for a year now. 

A year. Nothing less would do, Gil insisted. It wouldn’t seem serious enough to Chief Sanderson, who still was pushing his daughters and nieces and his _friends’_ daughters and nieces his way when his relationship with Jackie was new. Their relationship had to be settled, established. 

(Malcolm held his tongue after Gil agreed, because even though he knew their little ruse could simply open up the suggestions to men and younger women, he couldn’t bring himself to point out the logic and risk Gil second-guessing the offer.)

The problem with that was the inherent intimacy of a relationship that’s lasted that long. Malcolm and Gil have known each other for years, of course, and casual touches aren’t uncommon between them. Prolonged touch, however, is startlingly new. The soft clasp of Gil’s hand on his neck hasn’t given him a jolt in ages. The way their sides are flush against each other is making him _itch_. 

Chief Sanderson’s son cracks a joke about the hours his father used to put in, and Gil chuckles, the gentle shake of his chest reverberating between them. 

Malcolm smiles close-lipped. He’s counting down the minutes until the cake comes out, until they can put in their polite goodbyes and leave in the Le Mans, until he can pull away from the warmth he finds he desperately doesn’t want to lose.

Until he can remind himself this is nothing more than a silly favor he’s doing for Gil. _Nothing_ more. 

(He wants it to be more.)

The Chief’s old partner chimes in with a story from their wild days, from before Sanderson was promoted to the desk. 

Gil listens. His eyes are on the man as he talks, but nothing there indicates he doesn’t already know this story. The corners of his lips tug up at each little amusing line. He’s genuinely enjoying himself. 

And Malcolm falls a little harder. He curses himself. His own smile feels wooden, though he knows from his training it will still hold up decently enough. It’s unlikely many people are paying attention to him now that the shock of seeing Gil with a much younger man has mostly worn off. In fact, he gets the feeling Gil’s bisexuality _wasn’t_ so secret among the older crowd here. 

(His stomach twists at the thought that Chief Sanderson might have already tried hooking Gil up with men, too.)

The one person who could notice, of course, is Gil, and Malcolm doesn’t expect —

Tugging him impossibly closer with the hand wrapped around him, Gil leans in, the brush of his goatee and the heat of his breath against the shell of his ear shuddering down the length of his body. “You okay, kid?”

Malcolm tamps down on the shudder as best he can. There’s no way Gil missed it. “Peachy,” he quips quietly. “Really, Gil, I’m good.”

(It’s instinct to avoid ‘fine’ nowadays. 

Judging by the way Gil’s eyes crinkle, he noticed.)

“If you say so.”

Malcolm can _not_ wait until the cake comes out. 

He gets a short reprieve perhaps an hour later. There’s a moment where he genuinely has to go to the bathroom, and he promises to get them new glasses of wine and water on his way back. 

The wine is poured. The water is cold, two ice cubes floating in the cup. Malcolm stares at the spread of food on the table and hesitates, setting the glasses down to grab a plate — a single plate — to fill with food for them to share. At least that way, he might not offend the hosts with his lack of appetite. He puts a few cheese pieces on for himself. For Gil, he bypasses the cocktail sausages in favor of the meatballs and the eggrolls, and chucks a few grapes on the plate for good measure. 

“They went out for a quick smoke,” Chief Sanderson’s wife pipes up, nearly startling him into dropping the plate. 

Malcolm sets it down on the closest empty space amongst the appetizers. He swallows and smiles. “Cigars?” he guesses. 

She chuckles and nods. Goes on and on about how much her husband loves them even though his doctor has more than once warned him he needs to stop, no matter how nostalgic they make him or how bad the cravings get. 

Malcolm listens with half an ear. He’s mostly trying not to think about Gil with a cigar perched between his lips or the way his smile would curve around it. There have been a handful of times, after especially tough cases, where Gil’s stepped outside with a small box, pulled out a cigar, and stood outside the precinct with nothing more than the puff of smoke and the thoughts racing through his mind. Once or twice, Malcolm joined him without a word. Not to smoke. Just to be there for him. With him.

“...don’t you help me with the cake while they’re preoccupied?” Mrs. Sanderson smiles sweetly at him, and it’s genuine. He’s apparently made a good impression. “You can leave your plate here, I promise it won’t take more than a minute.”

He nods, taking a sip of his wine before leaving it all at the table. _Anything_ to help move this evening along. 

The cake is heavy. Heavy and decadent, the frosting a rich chocolate and the cake inside beautifully baked. They get it to the empty table beside the food spread. It’s a bit of a delicate maneuver to actually set it down, but the friendly wink Mrs. Sanderson gives him as she licks the smear of frosting off her thumb pulls a real grin out of him. 

Malcolm brushes off her thank yous for the help. He picks their plate and cups up again, balancing it all carefully just as Gil, the Chief, and a few of the other retired cops walk through the door again. 

Almost immediately, Gil’s eyes find his. He smiles and moves through the small crowd to join him again. “I could use a bite,” he says, reaching for one of the individually skewered meatballs. He chews it, swallows. He leans in to give Malcolm the briefest of pecks on the lips. His breath carries the smokey hint of cigar. It tastes like one of the decent ones, notes of oak and leather coming out in the way it lingers.

Malcolm’s brain skitters to a stop. Turns to mush even though they both agreed to quick kisses before arriving tonight. He takes a sip of his wine in an attempt to hide whatever reaction may have slipped. 

Thankfully, Gil is distracted by Mrs. Sanderson calling for everyone to gather round to sing and eat cake. There’s a quiet joy on his face. Something Malcolm wouldn’t associate with most of Gil’s old colleagues, but he knows Chief Sanderson was one of the ones supporting him from the beginning. Him going to the man’s 70th birthday party was not something he would do out of obligation, especially now that the Chief is long since retired. He _wants_ to be here. He’s enjoying it, maybe even more than usual now that there hasn’t been a whiff of a mention of available women all night. 

For him, Malcolm joins in on the singing. He trades their empty plate of appetizers for one with two decently sized slices of cake, a fork stuck in each. He accepts a clap on the back from Sanderson as the Chief makes his way across the room. 

(He realizes he doesn’t have a hand free to actually _eat_ the cake.)

Gil finishes off his water and sets the cup aside. Pulling one fork free, he stabs a small chunk of cake. He scoops it up. He holds it out in front of Malcolm’s mouth. 

Malcolm opens his mouth without thinking, leaning forward to wrap his lips around the plastic tines. He blinks. 

Gil is already eating a bite of his own. From the same fork. As soon as he sees Malcolm is done chewing, he holds out another forkful. 

Malcolm takes a deep breath and tries not to think about it. They’re still in public. They’re still at the party, surrounded by many people who are now under the impression they’ve been in a committed relationship for a year now. Displays of affection are expected. 

Right?

He accepts the bite.

Cake isn’t the herald of the end of the party the way Malcolm hoped it would be. Gil obviously wants to stay, so they linger. They mingle. They stay tucked close to each other and share little touches, close-mouthed kisses. 

It’s killing him. 

Gil squeezes his waist lightly. “Just a few more minutes. Promise, kid.”

Malcolm feels guilty for cutting the night short when Gil is so clearly enjoying his time here, but he can’t argue, either. He needs to be back at the loft. He needs to be alone with reality. 

Together, they say their goodbyes. Chief Sanderson insists they’re welcome to come over for dinner anytime. In fact, he makes them promise they will. 

(Malcolm hates that he has to agree.)

They hold hands on the way to the car, down the street under the lights, careful not to give away the ruse even now. 

Malcolm’s hand feels so cold when they finally part. He gets into the passenger seat and watches out the window as they pull away from the curb. There’s no chance his face won’t give something away right now.

He gets a pass while they’re driving. 

Gil pulls up in front of his own townhouse, and Malcolm is so distracted by trying not to bring attention to himself that he doesn’t even notice until the car shuts off. “I can drive you home later if you’re not up to staying the night,” Gil says, not bothering to get out of the car just yet. “Come in for a drink?”

Malcolm meets his eyes, because not doing so would be just as bad. He nods, tries to smile. 

As soon as they’re inside, Gil is pouring them both glasses of whiskey. “What’s up?” He holds one glass out, and their fingers brush as Malcolm grasps it. 

“Nothing,” Malcolm insists. He takes a purposefully small sip of the whiskey. 

Gil shakes his head. “Bullshit, kid.”

Of course Gil knows it’s bullshit. He knows Malcolm too well. And, maybe it’s all the cheap wine or the warmth of the whiskey settling in his gut, but Malcolm lets the words flow. “I shouldn’t have offered to do tonight.” Another sip. “Not when I’m already in love with you.” He’s exhausted. The weight of his own secret rolls off his shoulders. The strain of holding it back for so long gives. 

Gil reaches out and takes the glass back. “Bright…”

“I know,” Malcolm cuts in. 

It pulls an odd little chuckle out of Gil. “No, I’m pretty sure you don’t.” Then he’s leaning in, their lips meeting for the umpteenth time that night, the kiss just as soft and sweet and short as all of the others. “I was the one who shouldn’t have accepted. Not when _I’m_ already in love with you.”

“Oh.” Malcolm takes a deep breath before jolting forward for a deeper kiss. 

Gil laughs again. “Yeah.” He tugs him closer. “Oh.”

(On Chief Sanderson’s 71st birthday, they treat him to dinner at one of Malcolm’s favorite restaurants. 

Settling Gil up with someone else never crosses the old man’s mind. He’s too busy congratulating them on their engagement.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, as always, to Kate for making me my cards <3


End file.
